


The Time Between

by ladyblahblah



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Great Hiatus, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpts from Holmes's journal during the hiatus.  Inspired by the witches of the north, Holmes experiments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Between

_April 9, 1893_

It has been nearly two years since I left my friend John Watson at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, two years since I watched him weep over my supposed demise. As Rangessamin and I hid in the shelter of an outcropping he hid himself against my chest, unable to watch Watson read and reread the letter I had written. Sathrana continued to dash back and forth, her small, keen nose trying to catch our scent. Grateful as I was to see her give up at last, something inside me twisted painfully at the sight of her draped comfortingly around Watson’s neck as they turned away.

I have traveled constantly since that day. My most recent excursions have brought me north, where it has been my hope to see an armored bear; unfortunately, it seems that they do not enter the towns that I have visited, and I am not quite stupid enough to brave their stronghold. To make up for this disappointment, however, I have had the fortune to meet—quite by accident—a member of a local witch clan.

She had fallen in love with the proprietor of the inn where I stopped one night; when I saw her she was heavy with child and fairly glowing with her happiness. Yet there was a sadness in her smile that spoke of love and pleasure’s end, for when the child is born she will leave and return to her clan. Her time with him will become nothing more than a memory, equal parts pain and pleasure. It was nearly painful just to look at her, so clear was her future heartbreak.

Still, I may say without hesitation that Sondista Kachirarl was the most remarkable woman I have ever met. Northern winters are colder than I can possibly convey, yet she wore the merest scraps of clothing and seemed not to feel the bitter wind. Weeks later she tried to describe to me the sensation of moonlight upon her skin; I can think of only one thing that I should like to experience more, and only one thing that is further from my reach. But I digress.

I must admit that, beautiful as she was, my first reaction to seeing her was horror and disgust, for her daemon was nowhere nearby. I had heard that witches could send their daemons great distances from their bodies, farther than humans could ever even dream, but I had never seen it for myself. Luckily she did not take offense at my dismay, but laughed and assured me that such a reaction was a common one. Once the awkwardness of the situation had passed we fell to talking, and it was on her account that I stayed in that inn for nearly a month.

We spoke of many things, from the _panserbjørne_ to the witch clans’ feuds, and of my own little adventures in the life I had abandoned. I think that she understood more than I spoke; she was kind, however, and never voiced it aloud. Instead she told me, in response to my curiosity, more of her own life, including the trial that a witch must undergo when she comes of age. She spoke of it only in veiled terms, and I did not wish to press her; from what she said, however, I managed to gather that it involved the separation of oneself from one’s daemon. Ran trembled against my breast at the very thought. That one might willingly abandon one’s daemon . . . and that the connection, in doing so, might not be severed but stretched . . . it should be impossible.

Yet there she sat; alone, yet still human.

I met her daemon when he returned two days later, guiding in a group of travelers that had lost their way. He was a beautiful snowy white owl that flew in to immediately perch on Sondista Kachirarl’s shoulder. Their connection definitely remains strong; even so, Ran refused to approach him, as though afraid that their condition might be catching.

Is it possible to hide something from your daemon, I wonder? I have never tried before. Perhaps it is in vain, and he already knows. I can not willingly share my thoughts with him, however; not this time. I can barely share them with myself.

 

_April 21, 1893_

I have decided upon a course of action.

Rangessamin, it seems, had no idea what I intended until I broached the subject with him. Have I grown so adept at deception that I can fool even my own soul? The thought does not exactly bring me comfort.

As expected, he is dead-set against the idea. In truth, I am leery of it myself. But I have decided upon my path, and I shall not swerve from it.

Ran argues that we do not know everything that the witches do. There might be precautions, measures of which I know nothing. Without them, it could hurt us. It could kill us. It could tear us apart.

And yet for all of that, I can see understanding in his eyes. The process will be painful. There is no doubt in my mind as to that; I believe that it will hurt us more than anything ever has. But though we dread the process the result is more than worth it.

The North did not suit me. I have returned south and west again, and have finally settled in a lovely region of southern France. It is the closest I have been to England since my untimely demise.

I have procured a temporary set of rooms; they are nowhere near as comfortable as Baker Street, but surely nothing ever will be again. I move in tomorrow. Once I have settled, I will commence with my experiment.

 

_April 22, 1893_

My first attempt was disaster. I managed to close the door between us, but even with Ran pressed against the door as closely as his body would allow I could get no farther than the head of the stairs. The tug, the pressure was unbearable, and the knowledge that comfort lay only a few steps away proved irresistible.

I leapt back and flung open the door, and Ran flew immediately to my shoulder. He perched there, pressed against my neck, for nearly an hour. His soft warmth was so welcome, so necessary that for a time I seriously considered giving up my experiment. Time has firmed my resolve, however. I will try again tomorrow.

A letter to Watson was half-written before I even realized what I was doing. Rangessamin chirped out his distress when I threw it in the fire. I can not write to him; if he knew that I was alive, he would surely seek me out. I think that he would seek me out.

I do not know if he could ever forgive me.

The thought is too much for now. I will continue in my efforts, if only for the blessed distraction that they bring.

 

_May 3, 1893_

I have been dead for two years today.

I thought that time was necessary for both of us to recover from our last attempt. Today I finally tried again, and I am pleased to report that I was able to stand the torture of separation until the second step of the stairs. Ran sobbed when I rushed back, and I sobbed along with him.

Oh, it is agony! If you have never experienced your daemon so far away then you can never know the unremitting pain that accompanies each step. It is not physical; it is deeper than that, and greater. It is the feeling of your soul being torn away, of your heart being ripped from your chest.

I do not know if I can do this. But I must. Dear God, give me strength.

 

_June 1, 1893_

My experiments have progressed but little; for the first time in my life, I find that I lack sufficient strength of will. The pull towards my daemon is too strong, and in nearly a month I have only made it another two feet away. Each time I go flying back, glad beyond measure to hold my Rangessamin to me once more.

Thinking back, it is amazing that I was able to leave Watson as I did. I take some small comfort from that fact, for if I was able to abandon him and the life that I had built, surely I can yet manage this.

I miss him. I have avoided writing that until now, avoided even acknowledging the thought. Emotion, I know, will cloud my judgement, and so I have closed it off. And yet I can not make it disappear. Perhaps by committing the words to paper I might purge them from my mind and be able, at last, to move on.

 

_July 18, 1893_

It had been my intent, at the outset of this experiment, to chronicle each successive attempt. I abandoned that effort fairly quickly, however, as there is little point to it; the procedure is always the same. I close Rangessamin behind the door of our rooms and walk as far as I can from him, until at last my resolve withers and I come rushing back. There is a limit to how many times I can write the words. The pain, too, and the despair are sometimes too great to be catalogued, and our relief at coming back together too profound to allow any actions but holding him as close to me as possible.

Today, however, was momentous. I very nearly reached the bottom of the stairs. Not seventeen steps in this set, but a mere nine; still, when I measure my progress by how very little I was able to advance at the outset, it gives me hope. Perhaps it is indeed possible.

I dare not dwell for too long on the implications of my success. If I do, I shall either grow overeager or lose my resolve completely. The results are too important to risk in such a way.

This progress has restored my hope, which has been waning greatly of late. I truly believe that I can do this. I shall concentrate on my efforts for now rather than the recording of same. When I take up pen again it will only be to report a great advancement.

 

_July 30, 1893_

I am so exhausted that I can barely write, but I must record today’s events before I sleep.

I made it to the street today.

No easy task, I must say. The entire journey took me close to an hour. I have discovered that I can push myself farther if I pause periodically to adjust to the tension of our separation. My landlady surely thinks by now that I am mad, so often has she come upon me sitting panting upon the stairs, my face a grimace of agonized pain. It is lucky that she was so thrilled to have me extend my lease—my efforts are taking longer than I originally anticipated, and she is clearly glad to be spared the trouble of seeking another lodger. Otherwise I fear that she would have long ago shown me the door.

These periods of inactivity are by no means easy to bear. I do not know what is worse: hearing Ran crying out to me through the door, or the times when he falls silent. There have been times when the pain of separation is nothing compared to my misery at knowing what pain I am causing him. Still, I have persevered, and today’s progress is proof that my efforts are not in vain.

We have all, as children, tested the boundaries of our connections. Seldom, I presume—never, to the best of my knowledge—has anyone made it past two or three yards. How, then, can I describe the feeling of leaving your daemon so much farther behind?

We think of it as a string or a rope, keeping us tethered to each other. In truth the connection has no set distance; it is elastic, as I have proved with my experiments. The discomfort always begins at the same point, but with practice one can learn to push past the pain, to carefully stretch the connection between human and daemon. Like stretching a rubber band, however, there is always the sense of an imminent breaking point, a level of tension at which the bond can be pulled no tighter and must snap in two.

Today I felt myself skirting the edge of that feeling. The bond between us was, I believe, stretched nearly as far as it will go. One more step and I fear it would have been severed. And yet, if Sondista Kachirarl is to be believed, I must progress even beyond that point if I am to achieve my goal. The thought brings a nearly physical pain to my heart.

This afternoon I stood at the kerb for several minutes, breathing heavily as I tried to gather my will. I am certain I made quite a spectacle to those passing by, but I could not spare the energy to give them a thought. It was farther than I had ever reached before, and I was determined to make the most of it. Finally I garnered enough strength to step into the street.

I fear I may have actually cried out at the sensation. It was horrific, the sense of loss that began to creep over me. I bolted back to our rooms more quickly than I have ever moved in my life. The instant I flung open the door Rangessamin cursed me in every language we have ever known and flew immediately to my breast, burrowing into my shirt where I held his tiny, shaking body against my heart. I collapsed against the wall and sank to the floor, shaking as badly as he was.

I spent the next several hours simply holding him, telling him again and again how I loved him and never wanted to leave him. I hardly know what I said; it seemed to be beyond my control, the words simply pouring out of me in my distress. He did not speak, but pressed himself ever closer to me. I was glad to have him there, his slight weight and smooth feathers unspeakably comforting.

He wants me to stop these experiments. But I can not, not when I have come so close. I assured him that no matter what happened I would always love him, that he would always be a part of me. It pains me to hurt him. Yet I must.

I shall give us a rest for a few days. Later this week I will try again.

 

_August 7, 1893_

It has taken me two days to work up the ability to write this.

I have done it. We are separated, and he is gone. Oh, God, what have I done?

I must collect myself. This account is useless if I can not compose it with some amount of sense. I shall start from the beginning.

It took me less time than usual to reach the street. I believe that our connection must have grown more elastic through exercise. I did not have to pause nearly as long as I had previously before I stepped from the kerb.

Two steps into the street I crumpled to the ground. The tension between us, the horrible strain that had assured me of my continued connection to Rangessamin, had disappeared. In its absence I felt a terrible emptiness within myself, a kind of aching, gnawing hole too deep inside for me to identify. I wanted to rush back to our rooms, but I could not move. I could only lie there curled into myself, trying to ease my sudden terrible loneliness.

I felt a hand on my shoulder: a passerby had seen me fall and stopped to offer assistance. I waved him away; there was no way for him to help, and his concerned and solicitous manner reminded me all too keenly of my friend Watson. I could not handle the reminder in my current state. Slowly, painstakingly, I rose to my feet. Then, despite the urging of every fiber in my body, I began to walk in the direction I had started.

There was no turning back then. I did not know if my goal had been accomplished or if more was still required, but I knew that this would be my last chance. Should I return and discover that I had failed, I knew that I could not bring myself to try again. There was simply no way that I would be able to face such certain misery a second time.

I am not certain how far I walked. I have no clear recollection of it. I only know that it was long past dark when I returned, exhausted and depressed, to my rooms. Not until I reached the door of the building did I realize that the empty feeling inside of me had gradually faded. I felt as I always had with Ran by my side, though I had never recognized the comfort of being whole until I had experienced its loss.

I turned around and walked a block away, then two. The feeling remained. A sense of euphoria swept over me, and I dashed back again to our rooms. I wanted to exult with Rangessamin in our success, to delight in the fact that we had done what none but the witches have ever managed.

When I opened the door I expected his warm, feathered body to collide immediately with mine. Instead there was nothing, not a sign nor a sound of him. The flat that I have rented is not a large one, and I have few possessions; there are not many places that he might hide. I set about searching for him, calling his name with increasing desperation. Had my calculations been so frightfully off, I wondered? Had something happened to him? I was certain that I would feel it if he had been injured, but what might I not feel? He might have changed shapes, or disappeared entirely. I was willing to believe anything possible at that point.

As I searched I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of blue and brown shoot quickly through the open door. I spun around, and my heart sank.

It was as I feared. I had returned, but he had not forgiven me. I knew that he would punish me before he finally returned. If he returned. I knew, because it was what I would have done myself. And despite everything, despite my appalling treatment of him, he is still a part of me.

I can still feel him. I know that he is safe. But I miss him. Dear God, I miss them both.

 

_September 4, 1893_

Ran has still not returned. I wonder how long he intends to punish me. I can not say that I do not deserve it, but surely he is as distressed as I am at our parting. Why will he not come back to me?

I am trapped within these rooms. I can not go out lest people see me without my daemon. Even if I could, however, I fear that if I leave I might miss his return. That thought alone is enough to keep me rooted to the spot.

I dreamed last night. This is not a remarkable occurrence in itself, but the subject matter was not my usual. No revisiting the scene at the Reichenbach Falls, no falling with Moriarty to a watery grave. Instead, I dreamed of Sathrana.

In my dream Watson must have learned to stretch their connection even as I had. She had slunk in through the window, the one that I have left open for the last fortnight in the hopes of my own daemon’s return. I was poring over my notes when she appeared and leapt onto the small table where I was working.

We stared at each other for several long moments. My heart was in my throat as I waited for her to speak. Would she reproach me? Would she explain that they understood what I had done? Would she beg me to return? There was nothing that I could say to her, and so I waited; but she did not speak.

Without warning, she flowed up my arm to settle around my neck, as I have seen her do so often with Watson. I felt the soft brush of her fur against my skin, the heat of her warm little body. I thought nothing of the great taboo, never considered removing her, because nestled against me in such a way she felt so completely, inexplicably right. My heart sang; I felt as though I were floating weightless in a sea of bliss. I raised one trembling hand to stroke her fur and found that my sense of rapture and peace only increased.

I knew, in that way that is so common in dreams, that at that very moment Watson was holding my Rangessamin as I held his Sathrana, and that part of my ecstasy came from the feel of his hands upon my soul. It was the most glorious feeling I have ever experienced.

I woke and found myself alone. Would that I could dream such dreams for the rest of my life.

 

_September 22, 1893_

I am finding it difficult to write, for I have no idea where to begin. I suppose that I should start with the most important information: Rangessamin has returned at last.

I had fallen into a fitful sleep in the early hours of this morning. Something was troubling me, something that I could not define. When I awoke it was to find Ran perched on my bedpost, staring down at me with an inscrutable expression.

I sat up immediately, my heart hammering in my chest. I wanted to reach out to him, to hold him to my breast and take comfort in his solid warmth again. It was unlike him to hold back from me, however, and I knew that he must still be hurt and angry; I resolved, therefore, to let him make the first move, and simply stared back at him.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” I said at last, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Yes,” he replied. I thought for a moment that he would say no more, but after a pause he continued. “I did as you wanted.”

I knew immediately what he meant, and my hands fisted in the bed sheets. I could not ask; I had not the right. Luckily, he took pity on me.

“He is well. Safe and healthy. And that daemon of his is as keen as ever; I thought more than once that she had spotted me.”

Relief washed over me. Moran knew full well that I was alive, even if he could not find me. It had been my greatest fear, greater than that of my own demise, that he would strike at another in order to draw me out. I receive occasional reports from Mycroft, but they are no substitute for seeing myself that all is still well. Ran’s senses are sharp; if anyone had been dogging Watson, he would have seen.

“How—” I had to clear my throat, for my voice was suspiciously thick. “How did you manage to get there?”

“I flew to the coast and stowed away aboard a cargo ship,” he said. “I couldn’t make it across the Channel in one go.”

He fluttered down to land on the bed next to my legs. He stared at me for another moment.

“You left me,” he said at last, a wealth of bitterness and reproach in his voice. Something inside of me clenched.

“I did,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Was it worth it?”

I swallowed hard. “If I had lost you, never. But I had to know, Ran. And so did you.”

He hopped a bit closer. “I suppose I might have,” he said reluctantly. “And I suppose that it is rather convenient that we can separate like this now.”

I held out a finger, tentatively. After a moment’s hesitation he climbed on, only to take off immediately to perch on my shoulder and press himself against my neck. I held him there gratefully.

“I’m so sorry, Ran,” I said thickly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I missed you,” he said with a tiny sob. Then he pulled loose from my grasp and flew back down to my knee. “There is something else I need to tell you,” he said, gazing up at me earnestly.

“What?”

He hesitated, and I could feel his mixture of sadness, trepidation and hope. “When I saw him . . . I had a time tracking him down, you know, because he wasn’t at home. Not the home he had, in any case.” He paused again. “He was in mourning attire. Mary has died.”

And there I shall leave this account, because for the life of me I still do not know what it is that I feel.

 

_December 19, 1893_

I have finally told Ran about the dream I had in his absence. He stared at me like I was mad for all of a minute before cocking his head in thought.

“You don’t really think that’s possible, do you?” he asked.

“I can’t be sure,” I replied. “Perhaps.”

“It’s not! You remember . . .”

Of course I remembered. We had never spoken of when Moriarty had laid his hands on Rangessamin at Reichenbach; it was not something that either of us cared to relive. But we both remembered the pain and violation that had accompanied his touch.

“But that is what makes me believe it might work,” I said. “We hated Moriarty, and he hated us. Surely those feelings had a bearing on how we felt when . . .” I cleared my throat. “But if someone we cared about were to touch you, someone who cared about us in return . . . would those feelings not be the ones that came to the fore?”

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “We should try touching her first. You know that they would let you, if you asked. They could never say no to you.”

I fixed him with a steely gaze. “Would you truly ask them to do something that you were not willing to attempt yourself?”

He looked away, ashamed. “I do not want us to get hurt,” he said softly.

He did not refer to merely physical pain, as well I knew. I reached out and stroked his back comfortingly.

“It is a moot point, in any case. We can not go back.”

“What?” He fluffed up, uncertainty giving way to anger. “Tell me that I am misunderstanding. Tell me that you do not mean to say that our connection underwent such hell, that I traveled so far to see him, only to have you decide you’re too much of a coward to take the chance you’ve been given.”

“We are still being hunted,” I reminded him. “Moran is still out there; he would be a fool not to have agents watching London for my return, and whatever else the man may be he is certainly no fool. What is the point of our having left in the first place if we throw it all away by returning before it’s safe?”

He did not argue any further; I knew that I had made my point. Yet there was truth in what he had said. I can not deny that my reluctance to return to London is partially due to my fear of Watson’s reaction when he learns the truth. I think that he would forgive me. I hope that he would. Yet would I forgive him, if our situations were reversed?

I would. But then, I could forgive him anything.

These maudlin forays into emotion begin to wear on my nerves. Why do I insist on dwelling upon things that can not be changed? I avoided such entanglements for the better part of my life; I wish that I could go back to being the unfeeling reasoning machine that my friend painted for the world. Truly, the fault lies with him—had I never met him I might have remained blissfully numb. At times I find myself wishing that I had never heard the name John Watson, for it seems that once I allowed myself to feel anything, I began to feel everything. How much easier it would be if I had never opened this wretched floodgate!

I still insist on lying to myself, even here in my own thoughts. Easy as it might make my life, I have never been a brain without a heart. I am only a man, like any other. I do not display my emotions for all to see—even my daemon is noticeably undemonstrative when we are not alone—but I still feel. I still desire. My desires may be perverse, even immoral; I hide them from others for that reason, but I can not smother them entirely.

Well. If I can do what Rangessamin and I have managed, then surely I can return to the way I was before I knew . . . At the very least I am certain that I can manage the pretense.

But I weary of this idle speculation.

 

_April 1, 1894_

The sea is choppy; my writing may be difficult to decipher. Yet I lack any other way to pass the time on this voyage, and if I dwell on my thoughts I fear that I shall go mad.

The newspaper has been filled with the news of Ronald Adair’s death. It is Moran; I know it is. The earmarks of an airgun attack are unmistakable. Surely it can be no coincidence that a man of his acquaintance has met his death thanks to Moran’s weapon of choice. He has left himself open at last, and I shall be there to see the noose secured around his neck.

I am travelling back to London, and by this time tomorrow I shall be installed at Baker Street once more. I have already arranged everything with Mycroft—Ran said that my brother nearly suffered heart failure when my daemon appeared in his rooms without me. All that remains now is to secure my Boswell for assistance.

He will come, I am almost certain. It will require a careful approach; perhaps I might surprise him first with one of my disguises. If I can throw him off-guard then perhaps he shall not be as angry with me as I deserve.

Rangessamin is flying about the cabin like a thing possessed. Indeed, we are both more excited than is strictly wise. But a return to our old life is imminent, and my heart races at the adventure ahead.

A case to solve. A criminal to catch. And our old friend back by our side once more.

This boat can not travel fast enough.

 

END


End file.
